Page 6

Another Fucking Knife

Callum

A shower before bed wasn’t part of his routine.

Nor was staying up late.

Or drinking.

And yet, here he was.

It was the Arryvian and her stubbornness, he decided.

Her defiance. He didn’t even know her name and somehow she had wriggled her slender fingers under his skin with an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Hot trickles of water poured over his aching head as he leaned against the small confines of the shower stall.

The only pleasure of being on a ship was this.

It didn’t matter that it was a common room shared with the other men or that it took excessive work to haul the tank of water high enough that the pulleys could release it in an overhead stream; it was a luxury.

And he’d been saving bits of his earnings to commission his own shower when he bought his home—should there ever actually be enough coin to do that.

Her charcoal, almond eyes floated behind his closed eyelids; the surprise that had briefly dilated her pupils when he’d explained the crimes.

That reaction had been genuine…so, why then had she shown all the signs of deceit when she’d first claimed innocence? Obviously, she was holding something back.

He just needed to figure out what it was.

After leaving her room, Jameson had convinced him—against his better judgment—to join the team for cards and drinks.

He regretted it now, but at the time it had sounded like a nice reprieve.

Word of her wood-shaping had spread through the crew, and they gossiped like a bunch of hens.

Not that there was much else better to do on the ship.

Ominous whispers of the witch stuck to the floors of the boat like mud, and he had to muck his way through it.

The entire crew knew she’d cut him, not once, but twice.

They also knew the second required stitches.

The cook was convinced that she’d used her magic to subdue him enough to stab him, and Callum caught him talking to the dishwasher about how it would be wiser to toss the witch overboard to the mermaids.

Maybe he was right.

She’d been nothing but trouble—but she had to answer for her crimes, and her victims deserved closure.

He would see to it that they received it.

Water beaded on the wax-coated bandages encasing his waist.

Blaine, as annoying as Callum found him, was a great physician.

Though still tender, the wound was healing well.

His head swam.

The shower only seemed to amplify the effects of the moonshine in his system.

It was stupid, something he might have done in his younger years, but between Jameson’s goading and Theo’s good-natured ribbing, he had agreed to take a shot every time he lost a hand.

Mal was apparently really good at cards.

With a heavy sigh, he exited the steamy shower compartment and toweled off before stepping into his nightclothes.

He turned down the luminar, casting the room into shadow, and made for the bunk he now shared with Jameson since the damned Arryvian had destroyed his bed.

He grunted in frustration, his fist clenching before he entered the room and settled onto his cot.

The canvas stretched and the wooden frame protested under his weight.

He’d be home soon, and in his own bed.

Thoughts of the Arryvian witch persisted as he drifted to sleep.

There was something, like a word on the tip of his tongue, that seemed off, but he couldn’t grasp the fleeting thoughts before they disappeared into the quagmire of his intoxicated mind.

He turned the puzzle over in his head, trying to put the pieces together into a logical pattern.

There had been witnesses.

The trade ship had recognized the emblem the boxes bore—her seal.

The unrest over the last few years from the Resistance had quieted until now.

But, as usual, the governor had kept details from Cal and his team.

Too much was missing to complete the picture.

She wasn’t helping, but neither was the governor.

Lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship and the fog left by the moonshine, his mind slowly surrendered to a restless sleep.

***

Callum jolted and shoved himself off the cot on wobbling feet, gripping the metal supports.

He focused on his breathing to settle his mind and churning gut.

Inhale.

Exhale.

In…slowly…out.

Jameson rolled over in his bed and the creaking of his overhead bunk interrupted the silence of Callum’s ragged breathing.

If Callum had woken him, he said nothing, just farted and tossed over.

The Arryvian had lacerated his psyche.

He shuddered at the images racing rampantly in his head—his helpless body tossed into Behiba’s depths, its denizens dismembering him while he watched in horror as they feasted on his blood.

They were just words.

Her curses were malicious, but they couldn’t hurt him.

Callum scrubbed at his face, the stubble on his chin scraping his palm.

Moonlight kissed the walls through the porthole, painting everything in silver.

Well, no time like the present, he mused.

He wore the grey uniform, knowing the tight weave could slow any blade from penetrating his flesh, just in case she was feeling violent. Again.

It was still dark as he made his way through the cabin.

Green light illuminated the doors and small spaces between them and each rock of the boat made everything sway.

It was fortunate that he wasn’t easily nauseated.

Mal stood outside her door, his piercer holstered and his own uniform looking slightly rumpled.

The younger soldier stepped closer as he saluted his colonel and gave a curt nod of understanding, leaving Callum to relieve his duty.

The door protested softly when he pushed it open.

His gaze sought her, assessing her threat level before he entered.

The luminars cast her features in an otherworldly glow.

Relaxed in sleep, she barely stirred, only turning her head away to reveal delicately pointed ears peeking from her braided tresses.

The glint of metal wrapped around her wrists, linking her hands about a foot apart and connecting to the poles of the bed with a matching cuff around her ankles, similarly chained to the bed.

If it weren’t for the risk she posed to his men, he would feel bad.

Why didn’t her hands have tattoos, he wondered.

Did all females wear their hair long? What was their favored diet? On and on, the questions continued.

The governor had chosen him to lead the team because he spoke a bit of Arryvian.

But their culture was still as much a mystery to him as it was to the rest of his country.

Callum settled into a chair against the far wall and tried once more to put together the puzzle.

Was she the leader of the Resistance? Surely she was protecting someone, if it wasn’t her.

How tight-knit were the tribes? Would they all band together to keep the secret? He hoped he could find a weak link in her armor to get the truth out.

What did she gain by murdering those dock workers?

“You must be truly bored to watch me sleep.”

Callum jerked, lifting his head from where it had drooped.

He must have dozed off.

She locked her obsidian eyes on him, observing him like a cat stalking a mouse.

“Nah, I was just comin’ to see whether witches do rituals by moonlight,”

he replied.

“What makes you believe a ritual is necessary?”

she retorted, turning her eyes away from him.

“So it’s not? Are there…components? Necessary herbs or words?”

He tried to recall if she’d spoken when she’d made her knives.

Her lips tightened, the dark line running down her neck shifting as she swallowed.

She didn’t speak to him for the rest of the night, and well into the morning.

It was strangely disappointing.

The day proved to be just like the rest and their journey progressed much as the first week had, except with less blood spilled.

The Arryvian refused to cooperate, eating and drinking in silence—and only under duress, once he’d proved the food was not poisoned.

Callum continued to question, verbally poking and prodding, baiting her and hoping for any information at all.

She remained silent.

When she wasn’t eating, she was lying or sitting on the bed.

But Callum could see the sparks in her eyes like currents beneath the smooth surface of a river.

She was calculating and planning, waiting for her moment.

One evening, as he gazed out over the vast grey-blue sea, the call came.

Land.

They were nearing the docks; he would report there, and they would move her to a more secure prison.

Callum’s thumb stroked the smoothed ridges of the small totem she’d been carrying the day they took her, wondering if it had a part to play in her witch magic.

Jameson appeared at his side and smiled as he eyed the dock.

“Are we gonna sedate her when we disembark?” he asked.

“We’ll have to,”

Callum replied curtly, stuffing the small carving back into his pocket before Jameson could see it.

“Short of puttin’ her in a cage, nothing will keep her from runnin’.

Let her have some dignity.”

He scrubbed at the course stubble on his cheeks.

He needed a shave.

“Besides, we can’t risk the damage she may cause if she’s conscious—there’s no way to be sure she won’t summon a tree or somethin’ if given the opportunity.

We still don’t know what she’s capable of.”

Jameson nodded, his hazel eyes clouded in contemplation, watching the first tidbits of home come into view.

“I’ll be glad to get off this damned boat and have some solid ground beneath me,”

he muttered.

“We received a letter today requestin’ your presence back at the fort.

There’s a whole lotta fresh blood that apparently needs your expert touch.”

His smirk grew.

“You know how to work them hands, apparently.”

“Fuck off.”

Cal grinned and elbowed his friend’s ribs.

Jameson laughed, huffing at the impact.

“Mostly, they just don’t know their way around a piercer quite like you do.”

His eyes crinkled in a big goofy grin.

He sobered quickly, turning his face back toward where the city lights were just visible over the water.

“Captain Braxton Sullivan will take over the interrogation upon your arrival,”

Jameson said.

“Sullivan?”

Callum grimaced.

“Well, I doubt he’ll get very far with her.

She’ll eat him for lunch.

What about you? Where’s your next station?”

“Actually,”

Jameson licked his lips and shook his head, “I’m to stay and report under Sullivan for the time bein’.”

His shrug was apologetic, but his eyes held a flare of irritation that seemed out of place.

“He’s a jackass.

I don’t know how he hasn’t been demoted with all the shit he’s pulled.”

“Don’t worry.

They’ll question and prosecute her for her crimes.

Once she’s deemed no longer a threat to others, I imagine they’ll put her to work here or ship her back to where she came from.

Either way, you’ll be long gone and back in Arkona Bay with me until our next mission.”

Callum clapped him on the back, encouragingly.

“Not before I get a pretty lady to warm my bed,”

he replied with a chuckle, nudging Callum purposely in the the spot the Arryvian had stabbed him.

Bastard.

“You need to get laid too.

I say we get her dropped off with Captain Dickhead an’ hit the brothel first thing.

Get top pick before the drunkards can get in, what do you say?”

“You go right ahead.

I’m goin’ to visit my brother and maybe the shootin’ range after that.”

His finger flexed over his holster, already feeling the relief of being out there alone with just the piercer on dry land.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Jameson gave him a wink, then clipped toward his cabin to gather their men and belongings, leaving Callum to his thoughts.

He heard Jameson barking orders at Theo and Mal, his bright voice filtering over the flapping of the sail and rush of waves below.

The boat lurched as the anchor caught on the seafloor and slowed their progress into port.

The bustling and laughter of men eager to get off the boat abruptly turned to shouts of alarm and boots pounding across the deck.

Metal glinted in the sunlight as two soldiers pulled their piercers from holsters and sailors readied their knives.

A seagull croaked a blaring warning from above.

The Arryvian burst up the stairs and into a nimble roll, striking at his men with feral snarls.

She landed several slashes, leaving bloody gashes in her wake as she fought her way to freedom.

Another fucking knife.

How the fuck did she even get free this time?

Callum sighed, anger boiling in his chest as he watched her whirlwind of raging thorns carve a path across the deck.

The crew jumped back, clearing a path to where the gangplank hung, ready to be lowered.

Callum gestured to Jameson and crept around the deck on silent feet, ducking behind barrels and deftly maneuvering around the rigging lines.

He circled until he was between her and the dock and drew his knife.

Her eyes locked hungrily on the land behind him, fixated and desperate.

He knew that look.

Jameson had her flanked.

Callum gave the signal.

Jameson placed the brass whistle to his lips and blew hard.

The piercing noise shrieked across the chaos.

Time stood still.

She whirled toward the noise, hands shielding her ears, flinching at the shrill alarm, stumbling right into the path he’d hoped for.

Callum hacked the rope holding the boom in place and the wind tore into the sail and sent the boom swinging right toward her.

She turned, eyes widening briefly and quickly narrowing into slits when she spied him. She appeared to be utterly consumed with anger directed entirely on him. Before she could take another step, the boom collided with her abdomen. The momentum swept her feet out from beneath her. Callum dove after her as the massive log continued its journey over the deck. He slammed into her, wrapped his arms over her shoulders and tucked the fall into a roll.

Bright pain bloomed from the shallow cuts she dealt in her desperation, and Cal gritted his teeth.

Her breath rasped against his cheek as he blocked another blow, this time with his forearm.

With a jerk, he slid his arm against the blade, deepening the cut but flinging the knife from her hands and sending it skittering over the deck.

Then, with a single, well-timed roll, he had her on her belly, beaten steel sheets on the deck beneath them pressing into her cheek.

She cursed them all in Arryvian as she struggled, the foul phrases he had come to know from their time together.

He had to give it to her, they were getting increasingly more imaginative.

He had to focus to keep his lips pressed tightly and banish his mild amusement.

She twisted to glare at him sidelong, her dark eyes slicing at him from her prone position, wide and full of fury.

When he withdrew the small pen-shaped vial of poison, the anger shifted to fear and her struggles seemed fueled by panic rather than rage.

She was too proud to beg, but her face gave her away.

“Do you want them to watch? Starin’ at the wild woman while you’re transported in a cage and then dumped in a cell?”

He whispered in her ear, low enough that no one but her would hear.

“This is a mercy.

It’ll spare you humiliation and save your dignity.”

He was as gentle as he could be with her struggling.

Her spine arched at the prick, a hiss trailing between her teeth.

She writhed and twisted as he turned her over and gave her a second dose of the sedative—he’d learned from his mistakes.

Always two.

Her gaze, black as night, bore into his soul until the venom made her eyelids heavy.

He began counting, marking the time it took for the second dose to take hold.

“I hate you.”

The last words before her body went limp.

A twinge of guilt squeezed his chest as a single tear spilled from beneath her closed lashes.

“Well, that was exciting,”

Jameson joked, hefting the limp Arryvian by her armpits as the other two soldiers straightened their uniforms and gathered their luggage.

“Pretty lucky there was a shipment of those metal sheets so she couldn’t use her witch magic on ya’.”

Cal grunted in acknowledgment as he inspected the cut on his arm and the shallow one across his chest.

He decided the latter was fine as is but wrapped his arm in a bandage before disembarking.

***

The port of Durask smelled heavily of decaying fish and sour salt, the clamor of bells mixed with the shouts of bartering adding to the general cacophony of trade.

Same as always.

As much as he disliked the noise, it was good to set his feet on land again.

Callum straightened his hat and took a deep breath before guiding his entourage up the dock toward the barracks, where he would receive his next set of orders.

The two greenest members of his crew carried the gurney that held their sedated prisoner.

They’d covered her with some light linen to avoid attention as they made their way through the streets of Durask.

Though happy to be home, Callum’s thoughts drifted back and forth like the waves that kissed the dock.

He needed to have a word with his superior officer.

Not only was he being asked to hand the traitor over to a lower-ranking official, but now he was also losing his second.

It made little sense.

Callum suspected that relevant facts remained undisclosed; however, he still wanted to know the reasons for the decision.

Jameson had been on his team for over five years. Why separate them now?

Callum pictured Sullivan and grimaced.

All he could think of was how red-faced and blustery he got when things didn’t go his way.

Honestly, the man reminded him of a child.

Most of the others they’d trained with agreed that Sullivan was petulant.

But, for whatever reason, Sullivan had decided that Callum was the one he needed to best, and when he couldn’t…well, he wasn’t thrilled about it.

It was these thoughts that occupied his mind as they marched through the cobblestone streets.

The air here was drier and his lungs were happier now that he didn’t feel like he was breathing tepid water.

The ramshackle houses that peppered the outer city gradually shifted into nicer, upright homes with fenced plots of land where small cactus plants grew in orderly rows along the dusty ground.

People parted around them, dipping their heads out of respect for the governor’s military, keeping out of the way.

When the barracks loomed before him, he took a deep breath and shoved his thoughts aside, fitting the mask of Colonel Callum Reid back into place.

After the blue upon blue of ocean and sky—too much fucking blue—the grungey orange hues blazing under the desert sun stung his eyes more than the salty air had.

The barracks hadn’t changed at all since he’d been here last.

Blank walls, blank faces, gritty halls, and a pungent odor wafting from the cafeteria gave him a sense of familiarity and calm.

It eased some of the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders.

Too bad Sullivan would be the first he’d meet with.

Fucking Sullivan.

Following the signs, he made his way to the Officer’s Corridor, then paused a moment at the door to center himself before rapping twice.

“Enter.”

Captain Braxton Sullivan reminded Callum of those over-bred dogs with too much muscle to look like anything natural created them.

He had clearly taken the last few years to bulk up to appear more imposing.

Little good it did him.

Sullivan’s mouth tightened when he looked up to see Callum standing in the doorway.

No love lost here.

The captain stood from behind his desk and clasped his hands behind his back, his face etched into a permanent scowl.

Callum noticed the receding line of hair beneath his hat.

Poor fellow, still young and already losing his hair—and not enough practice in hiding it.

Sullivan tried too hard and was left wanting, it seemed, in the vast majority of his endeavors.

Cal’s gaze strolled over the medals and awards framed on the walls.

The silent boasting of the captain’s merits reflecting the man before him like a weak mirror.

“Colonel Reid,”

he greeted Callum with a paltry salute, as if it physically pained him to pay respects to the other.

It probably did.

Cal noted three years of merits were missing from the wall.

Those were the years Cal had earned top of his class—the awards sitting in a drawer in his quarters.

Sullivan had clearly not put that grudge to rest.

“Captain,”

Callum replied in kind.

“I require your report.

Did the criminal confess while under your jurisdiction? What information did you gain in the weeks you had her?”

The tone stung more than it should’ve, because he was right—Callum had been unsuccessful.

“Captain Sullivan,”

Callum began, “the prisoner was uncooperative.

Her communication comprised only of cursin’ and threats of escape.

She refused all attempts to discuss anythin’ beyond her imprisonment.”

He deliberated passing on the unofficial notes he’d made of what little he’d gleaned from their conversations, but he thought better of it.

Instead, he spun the clipboard containing the official log and doctor’s notes obtained during the voyage and slid it across the desk.

“Hmm.

Looks like she sank her claws into you.”

Sullivan gestured to the scratches across Cal’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, Colonel, I’ll get the job done.”

Callum ignored the subtle jab and stared into Sullivan’s eyes.

Ambition sparked there, along with wry disdain.

“Just remember the regulations, Captain,”

he warned with a pointed look.

“I’ll keep them in mind.”

Sullivan’s reply was dismissive, bored, and it irritated Callum, probably more than it should’ve.

He clenched his teeth to keep from saying so.

Sullivan may be lower in rank, but the governor had chosen him to take the lead, so Callum had to respect it.

Even if he’d rather have just about anyone else take over.

Literally anyone else.

“The governor has left your next set of orders with Sheryl, my lovely secretary.

She’ll get you what you need.”

With that, he held out his hand in a gesture toward the door and ushered Callum from his office like he couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

The feeling was mutual.

“Sheryl,”

Sullivan addressed the petite woman just beyond the door.

“Ensure Colonel Reid receives everything he needs and that you do your job correctly this time.”

“Yes sir, of course,”

she replied with a timid bob.

Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she hurried to get the paperwork.

“Need to say your goodbyes?”

Sullivan asked in a perfunctory manner.

“To the prisoner? The one who tried to gut me? Thrice?”

Callum shook his head, “I have nothing left to say to her.”

He turned on his heel.

“I’ll be at the range if you have questions.”

He closed the door behind him, following the clipped sounds of Sheryl’s heels.

He didn’t stay at the fort long, only filed his paperwork and then dropped his bags at his room.

He chuckled to himself as he settled on the bed and glanced around the plain surroundings.

Bare, grey walls, bereft of any decor, and sparse utilitarian furnishings greeted him.

Jameson was always ribbing him about why he didn’t have a house yet.

What good would a house do when he was always traveling? Besides, he’d grown fond of the sterile familiarity.

He stopped by the cafeteria and grabbed a sandwich and a couple cubes of salt before making his way back into the heat of the city.

On his way to the range, Cal stopped by the blacksmith to see about his old friend Seamus.

“Callum,”

Seamus greeted once he looked up from his hammering and saw Cal.

“Heard you were in Arkona for a bit.

Showin’ up all those softhorns, eh?”

His long, dark hair was swept back behind his massive shoulders and held there with a leather tie.

The man was so large that Cal was convinced he’d been fed nothing but eggs and milk from the womb on.

Seamus’ smile, though, was warm and genuine as ever.

“Nah, just teaching them how to not kill each other,”

Callum replied with a grin, leaning against the door frame.

“You got those new rounds ready for me?”

“I sure do.

Made ‘em to your specifications—more tapered toward the front.

You’ll need to let me know how they work for you.

I think they’ll be better than the last set.”

“Thanks, Seamus,”

Cal said, accepting a heavy pouch.

The rounds inside clinked as they shifted.

In exchange, Cal placed several coins on the counter.

“Your tip’s in there already.”

Seamus nodded his head in thanks and returned to his work, the clanging of steel following Cal as he made his way back out into the street.

The walk to the range was welcome, a familiar path to a familiar activity.

Thoughts of the Arryvian nagged at him, and the little object rubbed his leg from inside his pocket.

She was a murderer.

A threat to the government.

She aided in the Resistance, allowing what had been dying to flourish into a credible threat.

She was dangerous to civilians and military alike.

Her actions had gotten others killed.

The Arryvians that had banded together to rebel against the trade between Yetoben and Arryvia had gone quiet for a time—years, in fact. The bloodshed between both parties bonded them in a tentative pact. But they broke the pact. She broke the pact. But when he thought of her hair, of the cap of gleaming woven braids…her poise, and commanding voice…the way her eyes widened when he listed her crimes. He almost believed her. And he might have, if she hadn’t attempted to kill him. Again.

He passed under the arch marking the entrance to the range, and as he arrived, his feet moved by habit to his favored lane.

Cal cranked the wheel to move the dummy, his target.

Short-range first—a good warm-up.

Piercers were his favored weapon.

He’d even attempted to make his own as a youth when he and little Barlow, his adopted brother, had found a deposit of oritium.

The hard, crystalline rock had been difficult to work with and the weapon utter shit, breaking apart after the first fire. But hey, at least it had fired.

Of course, Yetoben’s yellow oritium was inferior to other varieties, so it made sense an amateur like him had failed.

The blue oritium found deep in the forested lands of places like Arryvia, however, was significantly better.

But the piercers used by his people were still beautiful weapons, and they got the job done.

The unique interplay between oritium and steel was not well understood, but Yetoben’s military had no qualms with that.

They were far less concerned with how or why the weapons worked and focused solely on one thing: you could make a small, rounded piece of steel shoot out of the end of an oritium barrel with incredible force—straight as an arrow.

Running his finger over the engraved ridges, he studied the shine of the sun on the barrel.

The triggering mechanism, a small piece of dampstone within the chamber, was swift and precise and the way the round shot from the barrel with barely a kick was damn-near poetry.

Quite a feat of engineering when compared to the lumbering common piercers of the day.

Callum loaded his piercer with ease, chuckling at how the chamber pulled the rounds in with an invisible force.

He’d always loved the reaction between the steel and the oritium.

The perfectly smooth stone cylinder seemed to welcome the bullets into its embrace, and it never ceased to make him smile.

Shoonk.

Another round slid in, and he offered a mental note of gratitude for his blacksmith friend.

Seamus was a fucking master who made the most perfect ammunition.

Callum took aim and fired.

The bullet ripping into the target made him think of her.

Sullivan would break her.

He didn’t care that she was Arryvian.

That she was a woman.

Sullivan would only see a terrorist aiding enemies of the governor. And like his target, Sullivan would tear into her, ruthless and cold.

He focused on the cracking sound of the bullets flying from his piercer, which grounded him.

The oritium inside propelled the bullet faster than one would believe possible, launching it into the target with immense power and speed.

He wheeled the target back in.

The grouping was sloppy.

Of the dozen shots, four were outside his circle.

He replaced the target circle and cranked the wheel to return the target.

This time, when reloading, he held the rounds a slight distance away from the chamber, just to see, testing the strength of the oritium’s pull.

Shoonk. Shoonk. One after another plopped right into their homes. He closed the chamber with a flourish, spinning the oritium cylinder, and grinned. His design was fucking ingenious, if he said so himself. Barlow had told him he ought to name his piercer since he loved it so much, like a first-born child. Perhaps he would.

Focusing on the feel of the handle in his palm, he raised the weapon up.

His grip loosened, allowing the weight of the piercer to settle where it had naturally from the years upon years of training.

He inhaled the smell of the range in all its comforting familiarity.

This was his world.

Not the giant emerald trees and swaying rope bridges, not the land where the air was so heavy with moisture that he could drink it in with each breath.

It certainly wasn’t the land of silverbacked toadies.

He smirked as he caught a whiff of himself.

Nope, I’m definitely not a silverbacked toady.

Nothing sweet about my sweat.

This time, the grouping was tight, the cluster of punctures no bigger than the barrel’s diameter.

He pinned a third target onto the dummy and wheeled it out to long-range.

Then he emptied another clip into the target’s chest. Dead on.